


Megalomania

by daniko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Dubious Morality, M/M, Pre-Slash, Star Trek: Into Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniko/pseuds/daniko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You and John have been declared war criminals in every fallen empire from Europe to America. They will kill you; and myself, if they ever find me. It's </i>over<i>, Sherlock. We have to leave.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Megalomania

**Author's Note:**

> There once was [this post](http://danik0.tumblr.com/post/53192906271) and therefore I had to join this bandwagon and I'm not sorry. Enjoy! ♥

“—over thirty million dead, Sherlock,” Mycroft was saying, but Sherlock was barely paying attention. “Sherlock, listen to me!” Mycroft finally snapped, forcing Sherlock to take his eyes from the surveillance monitor in Mycroft's desk and meeting his brother's eyes. “I know you have seen the signs, brother dear. I know this, because you have reinforced the guard around the palace.”

“Then why are you harassing me, Mycroft? I'm taking precautions: should the militia attempt a _coup d'etat_ ,” his tone dropped with contempt, “nothing will come of it.”

“There is a far wider movement than you suspect, brother.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It is not my empire. It is yours and that of other men who occupy _minor positions in the government_.” Mycroft pursed his lips, a tell-tale sign of exasperation. Sherlock reached out with a sudden movement, grabbed the crystal paperweight on Mycroft's desk and threw it at Mycroft. It soared past his head and shattered against the wall, but Mycroft hardly even blinked. “This is your entire fault, Mycroft!You thought putting gods in the command would make it easier, but I shall tell you something you seem to have failed to grasp in your forty-seven years of life: people _do not_ like it when you tell them what to do. They never have, they never will.”

Mycroft made an annoyed sound and raised himself halfway in his seat, leaning across the table to give Sherlock is razor-sharp focus. “What people are, brother dear, is stupid,” Mycroft enunciated forcefully, fury bright in his eyes. “They fight among themselves for land and fuel, they destroy their home planet with their innate commercialism, they fear things they do not understand and react with violence against that fear. If left to their devices, they will perish sooner rather than later. We have the power and the intellect to prevent the end of our race, should we not use it?” Sherlock did not reply. He had heard this very speech often in the past and it remained a study in vanity. Mycroft seemed to relax at the lack of opposition, but did not sit. “Furthermore, I am not to blame for what we are. We were made this way. I had thought you would outgrow this need you have to belong.”

Sherlock punched the table in front of him. “Every other Augment has been depositioned, you bloody twat!” Mycroft was quick to hide his shock at Sherlock's outburst. “I accepted your judgement on this matter for the sake of destroying Moriarty's network and I will. Not. Rest. Until I find the spider! Moriarty owns this continent and its governments. He used them to built his empire of organised crime; and, brother dear,” Sherlock leaned forward, hands on the table, “it's been ten years. Moriaty hasn't been seen in just as long, but he does send the occasional reminder he's alive. I will find him.” 

“You and John have been declared war criminals in every fallen empire from Europe to America. They will kill you; and myself, if they ever find me. It's _over_ , Sherlock. We have to leave.”

“You cannot truly believe I would leave John behind?”

“Of course not, he'll come with us,” said Mycroft, waving a dismissive hand. “Along with a few others.”

“John is stuck to a life-support system thanks to Moriarty's last souvenir!”

“I know, Sherlock!” Mycroft hesitated. “There is a spaceship—.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Mycroft!”

“Shut up, little brother, and listen,” Mycroft snapped, all semblance of patience gone. “There is a spaceship equipped with a cryogenic system of suspended animation which has shown remarkable results. Several of us are going and I would suggest you and John come as well. You know there is a new age beginning: the Starbase One was all but ready before the riots started and it won't be long before space exploration begins. We go now and perhaps we might return one day.”

“And are you absolutely positive,” Sherlock asked, “that these cryogenic systems are capable of ensuring John's survival?”

“For at least 100 years.” At Sherlock's skeptical look, Mycroft smirked. “Tesla,” he said in lieu of an explanation. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. “We postulate that the cryogenic systems will hold for far longer than a century, however, which are better odds than those you have here on Earth.”

“Very well, John and I will go with you.”

Mycroft clapped his hands once. “Lovely! I already sent order to place John in cryostasis.”

Sherlock grit his teeth and said nothing, although he tried very hard not to be contrary and refuse to board the ship after all. He could tell the conversation was over, because Mycroft turned to his computer and started the arrangements necessary for their exile. He insisted, however, in seeing John before being placed under cryogenic stasis himself and Mycroft was quick to comply.

The cryogenic tube was very cirurgical in appearence: it was hermetically closed, equipped with an advanced processor which registered their vital signs and three small ventilators that would ensure respiration. Whoever designed these systems (Tesla, according to Mycroft) had then succumbed to the fanciful notion of including a small visor, through which the occupant could presumably look outside. As said occupant would most likely be in suspended animation until the cryotube was opened, Sherlock doubted the utility of said visor; just under it, was placed a platinum plaque, which read _John H. Watson_ in sans-serif font.

Sherlock probably ought not to mock other people's fanciful notions, seeing as he was staing at the sleeping form of his best friend (likely his only friend) in silence. They would not be seeing each other for a very long time, but perhaps . . . well, like Mycroft had said: perhaps one day they might return to Terra. Perhaps defeat Moriarty, at last, together.

Sherlock placed a hand on the visor. “John . . . .” he whispered to himself.

Under the right perspective, he could almost persuade himself he was touching John's face; and wasn't that a life-lesson in itself? Sherlock ought to have touched John's face before, back when John would have been aware of it.

“Mr Holmes,” called a nurse from the doorway. “It's time to load the cryotubes into the spaceship.”

Sherlock allowed himself one more look, before turning around and walking out the room, refusing to look behind. Mycroft was standing next to the nurse, face devoid of emotion. “Ready, little brother?” asked Mycroft.

Sherlock nodded. “Moriarty will walk away unscathed,” he added, unable to forgo the subject. Mycroft hummed non-committally and, had Sherlock been in his right mind, he would have wondered at that. As it was, he was too worried about John and too enraged over Moriaty's victory to pay attention. Something else did occur to Sherlock, however, after a moment. “What have you called the spaceship, brother dear? Something as vainglorious as the man you've become?”

Mycroft pursed his lips in disaproval, but did not raise to the bait. It seemed he was going to refuse answering in childish retribution, but then he smirked, eyes bright with amusement. “ _SS Botany Bay_.”


End file.
